


Tired

by SaraDobieBauer



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Boys Kissing, Charmie, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Governors Awards, Hotel Sex, M/M, POV Armie Hammer, Polyamory, Quickies, Timmy is Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 15:17:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16684060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraDobieBauer/pseuds/SaraDobieBauer
Summary: At the Governors Awards, Armie and Tim looked like they had a wild and crazy time. In the aftermath, Armie begins to suspect some of Tim's smiles might have been fake. What's going on with Armie's young lover, and is there any way to fix him?





	Tired

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, I'm obsessed with the photos of Armie and Tim from the Governors Awards, but something about Tim introducing Armie as his lover didn't sit right with me. Also, my depression has been bad lately, so ... have some angst? Sorry not sorry.

He slipped me his room key in front of fifty photographers, and I laughed. Tim should be a magician what with that sleight of hand. When he snuck up on me, I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. So brash. Of course, I also didn’t expect my hand to reach for his hip as if Tim is my wife, when he’s not. He’s my lover—our lover, Elizabeth’s and mine—and has been for over a year, but it’s not public. Hell, no.

I can’t believe I almost reached out and dragged him in by his hip. I would have pressed our bodies together and laughed into his hair. It was Tim’s quick gesture, a pat to my chest, that reined me in. I’ve been feeling reckless about him lately. _Needy._ Everyone wants a piece of the golden boy—the beautiful boy—and it frustrates me that I can’t tell them he’s mine. I think it’s starting to frustrate Tim, too. When he tried walking away from me, I called him back and promised I would fuck him later.

Up on the fourth floor of the hotel, I look both ways, up and down the hall, before slipping the gifted key into the door. It beeps, light going from red to green, and I step quietly inside. I bend my legs a little because usually Tim flies into my arms as soon as I walk in the room. I’m getting older; don’t want to strain anything. But my arms remain empty, the room dim and lit by a single bedside lamp.

That delicate black jacket with the artful cutouts (bless you, Haider) is carefully folded over the back of a chair, and Tim sprawls across the bed on his stomach. He still wears the white shirt and black pants, feet bare and head turned to the side, pink mouth wide open as he snores.

I chuckle. Not the sexy interlude I was expecting, but then again, Tim is always sexy to me, even in my over-sized hoodies. Even when he has ketchup on the side of his mouth when he allows himself to eat fries. He still has body image hang-ups thanks to a high school experience saturated with eating disorders.

When he lost all the weight for _Beautiful Boy_ , I remember he didn’t want to be naked in front of me as if protruding bones would make me love him less. When he started putting weight back on, he kept sending selfies, asking, “Is this better?” Same with the haircut for _The King_. Same with the PR campaign with Lily-Rose. _Is this okay? Is this okay?_ I worry about how much he worries.

Now, my sexy siren sleeps, luring me ever closer with every wheezing exhale.

I remove my suit coat and velvet bow tie. Enough fanciness for one night. I kick off my shoes before sliding into bed at his side and perch my face on my upturned palm, supported by an elbow in the fluffy, white comforter. Tim whimpers a touch, clued into my presence but not ready to wake. I can’t help but smile at the miracle before me—the kid I just happened to meet in Italy and watch blossom into … well. If the Colbert interview is anything to go by, he’s still just my awkward, twitchy Tim, but he’s getting so many roles, working so much. Working too much.

I reach a finger out and push hair behind his ear. He hums and rubs his face against the blankets before muttering my name.

“Hey, sleepy,” I whisper.

His green eyes open just a smidge before he takes hold of the front of my shirt. He uses the fabric to drag his upper body across the bed until our chests touch. His open mouth sucks the side of my neck.

“‘M sorry I fell asleep.” He rubs his nose against my jaw—clean-shaven since I knew I’d be seeing him and our publicists are not fans of razor burn. It might have been cute at first; now, it’s a liability. He curls one long leg over my hip to press our groins together and sucks my earlobe. “Let’s fuck.”

I put my hand on his sternum for some space, a modicum of distance. “Wait, babe. We need to talk.”

His breath is warm and wet against my collarbone. “Been talking all night.” He starts pressing kissing up and down my neck, one hand like a claw down the center of my spine, but I’m an adult. Sort of. I have self control. Sometimes.

“Tim.”

The tone of my voice makes him groan and flop onto his back. “What?” He goes so far as to fold a pale, skinny arm over his face.

“You told the editor of _Entertainment Weekly_ I’m your lover tonight.”

“So? No one buys that shit, Armie.” He licks his bottom lip before biting it—nervous habit, so something is wrong, as I suspected.

I don’t touch him. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he huffs. “I’m just tired.” He rolls toward me, sneak attack, and against latches onto the front of my shirt. “Now, please, daddy, will you put me to bed?”

Oh, the little shit knows what _that_ does to me, but I will not be deterred. “Stop.”

“I don’t want to.” His lips close around my bottom lip and suck. 

He’s always been like this, even when we were filming in Crema with Tim barely out of high school. He is just like Elio, a sexual explorer and instigator. Tim loves living; he loves feeling. After all, he was the one who seduced _me_. He was the one who came over to my apartment to rehearse, all boyish limbs and floppy hair. He was the one who climbed on my lap and kissed me—not as Elio but as Tim.

“Is this okay?”

Nod.

He was the one who started a slow grind, his dick hard against mine.

“Okay?”

Nod.

He was the one who slid down to the floor and pressed my thighs apart.

“Okay?”

Nod.

I asked him after how someone so young could be so good at sucking dick and was rewarded with an oh-so-Elio eye roll. “I grew up in New York, Armie.”

Two days later, we fucked.

Four days later, I woke to him drooling on my chest and realized he’d somehow made a diving leap from my bed and into my heart. Then, Liz came to visit, and it’d been like the two of us—happily married with a happy life—suddenly realized something had always been missing, and that missing thing was Tim.

Now, here, in an unfamiliar Los Angeles hotel, Tim wields his sexual prowess to distract me from whatever’s going on in that overly-active, overly-emotional brain of his.

I turn my head away, removing my mouth from the equation and put a hand to the front of his throat to push him back—which is stupid because Tim loves when I wrap my hand around his throat. I expect he thinks he’s won this discussion. Wrong.

“Hey, listen. You just seemed really … manic tonight. Like you had too much energy. I know you like feeding the fans, but Tim, you seemed sort of nuts. No one else noticed because everyone is too busy being madly in love with you—or, at least, the you they see in public. I’m in love with the actual you, and I know something is wrong, so fucking tell me or I’ll just go back to my own hotel room.”

“Jesus, Armie.” He scoots up the bed and sits, tugging his hands through his hair before wrapping his arms around his bent knees. “Can’t you just let it go?” 

“With you? Never.”

“I’m just tired, all right? Tired of traveling and promoting and smiling, and shit, I’m tired of us fucking in closets at award ceremonies!”

I don’t even think he knows he’s yelling.

He plays with the tiny gold bracelet on his wrist—one of many I’ve bought him because I love the way jewelry dances and shimmers across his creamy skin. “Look, I’m sorry, I just … had a meeting with Brian today, and he’s really confident about _Beautiful Boy_ and award season.” He tilts his head. “I’m going to have to bring Lily-Rose to some things, and she’s great. What she’s doing for me is really great, but it made me realize how much I want you on those red carpets with me again. So tonight maybe I pretended you were my date in my head just to …” He shrugs bony shoulders. “Then. I got tired.” Bottom lip between his teeth, he looks up at me. His eyes are wet and red in that sneaky way of his. It’s rare that tears actually fall down his face. It’s like he secretly swallows them into his skin, recycles them, and saves them for his roles.

I sit up, right in front of him, and tug at the backs of his knees until he gets the idea and climbs onto my lap, straddling me. We both have long arms (Tim’s mom calls them “monkey arms”), so we’re pretty much tangled when his whole body shudders on the first sob.

“Oh, babe …” I kiss the side of his face over and over. “I’m tired, too, but we can’t do anything yet.” I think to myself, _Maybe never,_ but don’t say it _._

Tim knows about Liz’s bakery business, the conservative customers, and the judgmental parents at the kids’ school. Tim knows about the social circles of the rich Hammer clan. He knows “polyamory” is a dirty word even if that word translates to love, devotion, and joy.

Fulfillment.

I have found fulfillment in the arms of a kid who’s barely old enough to drink but who’s more talented than any actor I’ve ever seen. And who carries me around in the palm of his hand. Who can make my week with one text; who can make my month with one look.

I hold him until he stops shaking. He melts against me, limp, and mutters, “Tired.”

“I wish you didn’t work so much.” 

“Work keeps me busy. Busy helps me forget I’m alone.”

I draw back like I’ve been stabbed—and I’m pretty sure I make a sound that encompasses the same. I dig my hand into the hair at the back of his neck so he’ll lift his head and look at me. “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.”

He runs his fingertips over my mouth but doesn’t look me in the eye. “No, I know, I’m sorry. Maybe I am feeling a little nuts.”

I duck my head, try to see into his eyes, but he avoids me and hides behind his ever-lengthening curls. “Do you want to sleep? What do you need?”

He responds with a kiss that almost knocks my front teeth out. He grinds and twirls his hips the way he does, like maybe in another life he was a belly dancer. I latch onto his ass and press up. His head tilts back on a moan.

I’m strong enough to lift up onto my knees, lifting Tim above me and tossing him onto his back down the center of the bed with me on top. He’s too exhausted to fuck, I can tell. His eyes are barely open as we rut against each other, chasing pleasure. 

I unbutton his pants and shove my hand inside. His whimper goes right to my cock. I tease and rub but move just the way he likes. This needs to be over quickly, because my boy needs to sleep.

I know he’s going to pass out as soon as he comes—he once did so with me actually still inside him—so I say, “I love you” now. I say it until it becomes more than praise but a prayer, a promise.

He nods against my face, mouth finding mine. He’s barely coherent, just a writhing pile of long limbs, as his hot breaths puff-puff against my face. He sighs my name as he comes, hips jerking up against mine.

“Tim, look at me.”

He blinks and opens his eyes, emerald gone black in the scant lamplight. He holds my face in his hands and watches as I ruin my trousers with a groan—but who cares? For a moment, I think I’d like to throw it all away: the fancy clothes, celebrity events, smiling and smiling … Throw it all away just so I could live a life with Liz on one arm and Tim on the other, all of us under the same roof, raising kids, attending PTA meetings, eating cold pizza while watching old movies, the three of us curled under the same blanket. Bye-bye inheritance. Bye-bye big Hollywood career. Bye-bye Tim’s career?

I melt on top of him and crush him with my weight. He doesn’t complain. He’s half asleep as I press kisses into his hair and smell the lingering ghosts of hair product and a secretive cigarette. Brian said smoking is bad for Tim’s image, and it’s all about the way things look. 

_Look how Tim and Armie are such great friends!_ Mentor and mentee. Big brother to small. Bromance of the century! Ha.

Suddenly, I’m tired, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Come play with me on [Tumblr](http://saradobiebauer.tumblr.com/)! I'm ridiculously in love with Timmy over there.


End file.
